There were a lot of Sals in Pelham Bay section of the Bronx where I grew up in the 1950s and ’60s, so initially, I didn’t think of it as an unusual name. As a student at St. Theresa Roman Catholic School, there were four Sals in my class alone. The others were Salvatore DeLuca, Salvatore Longarino and Salvatore Gelso. There were eight grades. So you do the math.
It is Sicilian tradition to name the first born son after the paternal grandfather. And in my family, the names Stefano and Giovanni had alternated for generations. My paternal great-grandfather was named Giovanni, and my grandfather Stefano. He came to the United States as a young man in 1904. He helped dig the subways and married a 15-year-old Sicilian girl, Santa Ara. They raised eight children in East Harlem. His first born was a boy – you guessed it – Giovanni – my late Uncle John.

Anyway, by the time I came along, I already had three older cousins named Stephen. Apparently, my mom, just 22 at the time, summoned up the courage to say, “No more!” It raised some eyebrows, but just about everyone, including my traditionalist father, thought it reasonable. My dad, the seventh of the eight siblings, was named Salvatore. So he thought Salvatore Jr. most appropriate. But for some reason my mother was partial to the name David. Apparently, this was not resolved right away.

It became — as the cliché goes — a bone of contention. Toward the end of my mom’s week-long hospital stay (they kept mothers in a long time in those days) the nurses pressed her for a decision on my name and unbeknown to my dad she went with David. He hit the ceiling when he found out and demanded it be changed to Salvatore. The ancient Photostat (remember when that was a high-tech term?) of my birth certificate shows David Arena typed in as my given name, but it is crossed out and Salvatore is hand-printed above it.

I was young , perhaps 10 or 11 years old, I heard this story for the first time, and it always made for interesting conversation.

Then, on March 19, 1971, I turned 18 and had to register for the military draft. That was the one and only occasion when you could get out of Cardinal Hayes High School in the Bronx unescorted in the middle of the day. It was a right of passage for the guys at Hayes. Forget the Vietnam War. We wanted the draft card so we could legally troll the local night spots on Saturday nights and even get served. You could drink at age 18 then.

A bus trip up the Grand Concourse and a transfer to a second one south on Fordham Road eventually brought me to Office of Selective Service, in a shabby municipal building on Arthur Avenue. I gave the clerk my name and date of birth. She took out a huge bound book and started searching. And searching. And searching.

Finally, she looked up and announced, “We have no Salvatore Arena born that day… but we do have a David Arena.”

“That’s me,” I said. And out came my Sal story.

I registered for the draft as Salvatore Arena Jr. I had a Social Security card that backed that up. Not long after, at President Nixon’s behest, Congress revised the military draft, eliminating most existing deferments and instituted a lottery based on birth dates. March 19 was chosen No. 310 or so, and they never went that high drafting people. So no Vietnam for me. It was off to City College and hopefully a career in journalism.

Anyway, that fall, when I earned my first byline for an article as a reporter for The Campus, C.C.N.Y.’s undergraduate newspaper, it read: By Sal Arena. My father saw it but didn’t seem impressed that it was the lead story on the front page. He reminded me in his firm, but gentle way that my name was Salvatore. Now, you can call me Sal. But I got his message and have proudly used my full name, in all its ethnic glory, as my byline and signature ever since.

Salvatore Arena, assistant director of media relations for the Long Island Rail Road, is a former reporter and editor at The Daily News.

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